Values
by Pat Taylor
Summary: The untold story of one of the Larkhill guards. Fingerman Richard Irons has been given twentyfour hours to live. However, V faces a new threat: will he reach his target before his mental breakdown puts his family at risk?
1. Midnight

_Author's Note: Richard Irons is a real part of the V universe. However, his debut appearance in the giddy world of the Alan Moore graphic novel doesn't stretch much beyond a name on the computer list Finch consults when checking the former Larkhill employees terminated by V. According to that list, he was killed on 23rd December 1996…_

**VALUES**

_**London, 1996**_

_**Midnight**_

Arthur Marr sits in the cold plastic chair, squinting in the blinding glow of the flashlight. On the other side of the table, a man in a shirt stares at him intently, analysing his every move. Scrutinising him. Next to him, another man lights up a cigarette.

"Come on, Arthur," the man with the cigarette says, friendly enough, but his every word is weighed down by threat. "Here, have one."

He's offering the box forward in the blinding light. Arthur declines.

The man shrugs. "Can't say I blame you. Now that the Americans are busy sifting through the ruins for food, all the decent brands are out of action. I was a Lucky Strike man, myself." He leans over the table slightly, a tall man, ruggedly handsome, with sharp Irish blue eyes. And no soul. None at all. Those eyes hadn't seen real love for a long, long time. "Say, Arthur, do you know why Lucky Strikes were called Lucky Strikes?"

"I d… I don't," Arthur stutters meekly.

The man across the desk flexes his knuckles. His grim face breaks out into a grin, like a hungry crocodile. "Back in the day, one of the twenty you'd get in a pack – the Lucky Strike, if you will – contained a little extra something. A little marijuana."

He chuckles, a sound with enough warmth as his cold dead eyes. Arthur chuckles too.

He knows they're just going through the motions now. The good cop, bad cop act. Luring him into a sense of false security, toying with him a little before letting him know that there's a nice place waiting for him behind the chemical sheds in Highgate. A nice place with six South Ken boys, all toting semi-automatics.

No, not semi-automatics. They'd never be that merciful. Revolvers, six shooters, probably with a dummy cross on every bullet.

Arthur winces.

"Doubt you'd be getting much of that around nowadays though, huh?" the man with the cigarettes continues. He takes a long drag, and those piercing eyes don't budge an inch, watching Arthur as he squirms and sweats. "There's a lot you can't get these days. A whole lot."

He's moving in slowly, moving in for the kill. "But I guess in some ways, we're living in a better world. No more smacked up kids going wild on the estates. No more beatniks. No more riots." And now he's smiling again, but this time it's terrifying, so bad that Arthur wants to scream. "And no more pooftahs. Arthur."

Arthur slumps back into his seat. "Please," he winces. "It isn't true. I'm a… a happily married man. I love my wife. Please, this can't be happening…"

"It's happening, Arthur," the man says, still grinning. "We found all those magazines you had stored in your garage, tucked away nicely so that beloved wife of yours couldn't see them. They were so waterlogged and yellow I was amazed you could have read them, Arthur, let alone get it up off them."

"Please," Arthur begged. "It's a set-up. They weren't mine."

"Then who's were they? Your son?" The man backs away from the table, crushes the cigarette out beneath his shoe. Rubs his nails on his shirt. "We've got two boys waiting outside of his school for him, you know. If it wasn't you, it could be no-one else."

"Oh, god, he's sixteen years old," Arthur sobs.

"Old enough to enjoy those filthy rags. Old enough to be executed, under our country's Homosexual Relations and Activities Act of 1992. Admit it, Arthur. You're in some serious trouble here."

Arthur looks up at the man desperately, his eyes misting over. Looking for sympathy.

He's not getting any.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice trembling.

A look of bitter victory spreads over the face of the man, and he turns to a table blanketed in shadow. There's the sound of shuffling paper, and then Arthur is staring through teary, blurred eyes at a hefty sheet of papers. And an expensive black fountain pen.

"Sign this," the man says, matter-of-factly.

Arthur skims through the sheet. He stares into those merciless eyes.

"This is a confession."

"That's right," the man says. "Convicting you of illegal possession of magazines believed to contravene the Homosexual Relations and Activities Act. A crime punishable by death by shooting. Just sign on the dotted line."

Arthur raises a shaking hand, clutching the pen like a lifeline. "And if I don't?"

"Then I make a phone call to two men who will be waiting outside your son's school tomorrow. And I'm sure he'll be more willing to confess to that little crime of yours. In fact, we won't give him the choice." The man cackles and wedges another cigarette in his mouth. His partner doesn't flinch as he flicks up the lid of his Zippo. "So choose now, old man. You or your son."

Almost crying now, Arthur signs on the dotted line, too traumatised to even read the list of crimes he's been charged with. It no longer matters. All that matters is that Arthur Marr, greengrocer and happily married father of one, will be lying on a slab by dusk tonight with a bullet through his head.

"That's right, you old faggot," the man snickers. "One less of you sick bastards on the street."

Arthur drops the pen and breaks down, bursting into tears that stream down his time-worn cheeks, into his thin moustache. The man on the other side of the table, the silent man, gets up to check on him.

"I'm done with this queer," his partner says, taking a drag on his cigarette. "When he's calmed down, take him back to his cell and give the boys in Highgate a ring." He walks through the door, into the unnatural white light of the corridor. "Tell them we've got another."

The man does as he's told, probably. As he walks down the corridor, Richard Irons no longer cares. All he's thinking about is getting home to the loving embrace of his wife. To getting some sleep and leaving all this crap behind.

He'd been working on Operation Huxley for two months now, seeking out closet homosexuals, anti-government dissidents. Non-believers. It didn't matter to him. One less beatnik or nancy boy on the streets was always a good thing.

Richard Irons flicks the light on in his office down the hall. He steps inside, collapsing into his seat and sighing.

The distant breath of the wind, rustling through the vertical blinds. Caressing the back of his sweaty neck with chilled fingers.

Funny, he thinks. That window had been shut.

He stands, slams it shut. Returns to his desk.

And sees it for the first time.

"Oh god," he stutters. "Oh, god no… oh, please god…"

A single pink rose.

To be continued…


	2. 0000 to 0300

**VALUES**

**_Part One_**

**00.00**

He stands on the edge of a grim grey tower, looking out over the jagged, butchered skyline of the new London. The night is laced with ice, cold and harsh. Every breath is filled with brimstone.

It doesn't bother him. Tonight the lure of victory is in the air. Another target off his list.

Richard Irons, he thinks, with a small smirk. I remember him.

And he leaps off the edge of the building, into the dizzying lights and grey streets of the city.

**00.30**

The agent the Nose had sent down was called Pitt, and he'd been working in the forensic department since the Nose's formation. Since then he had grown ever more disillusioned with his choice of career. It seemed mostly to consist of investigating small-time terrorist rings with fertiliser bombs, or dead prostitutes, or political dissidents. And it always, always seemed to come back to the Party.

This, he thought, as he stared at the delicate pink rose through a magnifying glass, was at least different.

Mr Irons had called the Nose at a little after midnight. They found him sat outside his office, half-insane with terror. He'd calmed down a little now, but he'd stopped making sense completely. Wouldn't stop babbling about 'the dark man,' and 'the man in the flames,' and how 'he said he'd come back.' Pitt's partner, a young rookie called Neil Bond, was trying to get some sense out of him in the corridor.

It was the rose that had interested Pitt.

A variety that hadn't been seen since the war, it's very existence was enough of a surprise. How it had been left on this desk, seven storeys up in the Finger's Headquarters, without anyone passing by in the corridor, was an impossibility.

He'd have it sent to a botanist tomorrow. He'd have it dusted for fingerprints. But right now it made no sense. None at all.

"Mr Pitt?" Bond's soft voice, coming from behind.

"Yes, Neil?" Pitt replied, not turning round, still turning the rose around in his gloved hands.

"We're not getting anything out of Irons," he said glumly. "The man's half-hysterical. Best thing we can do is send him home till he gets his senses back together."

"That would be the sensible thing to do, wouldn't it?" Pitt said, barely hearing his partner.

"Of course, Detective," Neil said uneasily. He turned to walk out, then said, "Oh, and one more thing…"

"What, Pitt?"

Neil frowned, as if struggling with his own words, then said, "He thinks this rose is a warning of some sort. He thinks he's in danger."

"The man's delusional. Wouldn't you be? It's not an every day occurrence, this."

"He's not budging," Neil sighed. "He wants a Finger escort."

"Then give it to him!" Pitt snapped. "For god's sake, man!"

Neil flinched at his superior's outburst, attempted to say something, then thought better of it and turned back through the door.

Pitt stood for a few seconds, wondering what had made him snap, trying to cool the vein that throbbed fire through his mind. It all seemed too much, it was late at night, he hadn't slept. But there had been no need to shout at the kid, none at all.

Take your pills. Calm down.

Alan Pitt swallowed two capsules and stepped out of the office.

**01.30**

A battered red Vauxhall pulled up outside a modest semi-detached home in Camberwell. The blinds, lids over silent, dark windows, twitched briefly in the dim light of an orange streetlight.

Richard Irons stepped out of the car, into the silence of the street, into the chilled night air. His hands were still shaking.

He hadn't got his Finger escort, but the Department had promised to dispatch two men to keep an eye out tomorrow morning. Marvellous, he thought bitterly, as he wandered up the garden path in a semi-daze. Six years of loyal service, and military service before that, in the RAF, and this was how they bloody repay him. It was enough to make you sick.

He'd smuggled his gun out, though, tucked neatly in his jacket pocket, where it now banged gently against his chest. He'd seen the bastard move. Like a hawk, some awful black hawk from the mouth of hell itself, fleeing up the hill with the flames trailing behind him.

And he'd seen his eyes. Those awful, awful eyes.

Come on, man, he thought bitterly, fumbling through his jacket pocket. Whatever bogey man he may be, he's still a man. And a bullet through the heart is enough to kill any man, whatever karate tricks he thinks he can pull.

Richard Irons unlocked and opened his door, stepping into the grim, unwelcome silence of the Iron's family home. The streetlight cast a bleary orange eye on the worn red carpet through the door window, lighting the coat stand by the door on which Irons hung his jacket. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the gun and thrust it into the back of his jeans pocket, then headed upstairs.

Jean was still awake when he stepped into the bedroom, lit by a single light by the bed. Reading a book, some trashy paperback she'd picked up from the library, probably. Romantic nonsense.

"You're late," Jean said, as he stepped into the room.

"Shut up," Irons snapped, unbuttoning his jeans. "I'm not in the mood, Jean."

Jean looked down into her lap. "Ted was worried."

Something snapped in Irons. A raw flash of jealousy, maybe. Jealousy? he thought madly. Jealousy? She's my wife, for Christ's sake. And Ted's my son.

Groaning, he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it to the bedroom floor. "As he should. I'm the boy's father. It's normal for a lad to miss his old dad when he's working late, isn't it?"

Jean shrugged. "Come on," she said weakly. "Come to bed. Relax."

Irons crashed down on the bedside and put his head in his hands, letting out a harsh sigh. Jean's hand gently came to rest on his tense shoulder, rubbing gently. Cool fingers, stroking his tight muscles. He began to loosen a little.

"Come on," she whispered. "What's the problem?"

And suddenly, uncontrollably, it all came crashing down into him again, and he was throwing her wrist down and screaming into her face, and he didn't even know what was taking over him.

Those eyes. Those awful eyes.

Jean's eyes, breaking into a sob.

"Oh, shut up," he mumbled, climbing into bed. "Please, will you for god's sake shut UP?"

Jean slid beneath the sheets, gripping them tightly, her back to her husband. With one hand she turned off the light and plunged the room into darkness.

To be continued…


	3. 0300 to 0600

**VALUES**

**_Part Two_**

**03.00**

The rose lay limp on the white table, exposed beneath the naked white light like a corpse in a mortuary.

"It's of the species Hybrid Perpetual," the botanist, a pretty young girl called Abby Fenchurch, explained. "Very popular in Victorian England."

Pitt nodded grimly. Victorian, he thought. Victorian.

"Anything else interesting about it?" he asked. "Anything else I should know?"

The botanist shrugged and ran a hand through her dark hair. It shone briefly in the vivid white light. She turned back to the microscope for another look.

The detective work bored him. Back before the war he'd been on the Flying Squad, right on the front line. Nothing but action, then. He hadn't seen action or excitement in a long time. Just lots of wandering round dull grey buildings and standing in unnatural white rooms like this, staring through dirty windows at the lights of the city at night beyond as experts tinkered round. It'd probably turn out to be a dud lead, but hell, it was all he had at the moment.

"Looks like it was picked recently," Fenchurch said, matter-of-factly. "Where, I have no idea."

"What about the species?" Pitt asked. "Any symbolism? Any historical connections?"

"Other than the Victorian, not really. The Romans associated the rose with secrecy if that's any help. Sub Rosa – literally, 'under the rose.' And with the goddess Venus. The goddess of love."

Secrecy. Love. Victorian.

What the hell did it mean? And why had Irons been so terrified by the damn thing?

He didn't know. Right now, all he wanted was sleep, but a stiff coffee in the car would have to do. Scribbling the three points he knew down in his notebook, the Nose agent thanked the botanist and bid her good night.

**03. 30**

The battered Ford Escort was parked in the bright orange lights of a streetlight, opposite the grey block of the Botany building. At this hour, the streets were silent.

Agent Terrence Pitt, Terry to his friends, Pitt to everyone else, was sat in the front seat with a briefcase, a notebook and a Thermos flask in his lap. Occasionally he took a sip of the cloying, bitter coffee.

"The rose is a dead end," Pitt said, choking back a drop of the coffee. It was growing cold rapidly in the chilled air. As if it could taste worse. "Species Hybrid Perpetual. Just three things, and I have no idea how they're connected. The Romans associated it with Venus and secrecy. The Victorians liked it. That's it."

His partner, Neil Bond, nodded sagely, probably unaware that he was even doing it. The young man was deep in thought. "I've heard that before," he said.

"What, the Romans?"

"No," Bond replied. "The species. There used to be a rose garden up at the Abney Park Cemetery, back in the 1840s. That's practically where that breed was created, if I recall."

Pitt chuckled. "And how do you suddenly know so much about roses?"

Bond smiled and shrugged. "My mother was a gardener," he said. "Back when we had gardens."

"Well, it may not be much to go on," Pitt said, wiping his eyes. "But it's a lead. Come on."

He poured the tarry remnants of the coffee out on to the pavement, where they steamed briefly, and then started up the engine.

**04.00**

The dreams were always the same.

He was at Larkhill. The place stunk of stale food and cold coffee and bleach. Except on Thursdays, when the furnaces were running. Then it smelt like frying pork, like bacon a little too overdone.

He'd worked the furnaces once. They came on a conveyor belt, one after another, limp, pathetic things, little more than skeletons. When he'd lifted their cold, stuff bodies they'd have no weight at all, like bags of cloth. He felt no sympathy, no guilt, as he flung their remains into the black flames. It was like burning old clothes – just something you do. You pick them up, you toss them, you move on to the next.

It was an easy job. Hell, Larkhill was a pretty sweet break whatever way you looked at it. Stand around all day, beat on a few Pakis or pooftahs, have a chat and a laugh with the other guards and then return to your dorm. Good pay, too. Sure beat the hell out of the RAF.

He was on duty down on E-Block. He hated E-Block. Just one prisoner, but…

It was the eyes. Those piercing, flaming eyes.

And he stood outside Room Five, its hefty steel door like a bank vault, and he tried to look busy elsewhere, rather than think about those eyes. Those awful eyes.

He thought about his pretty young wife, at home asleep back in London, pregnant with his first child. He wanted a boy. Someone to take up his father's legacy, someone to follow his footsteps in the forces.

There was a loud thud on the door.

"Shut up!" he balked. "Shut up now, or I'll come in there and give you a damn good beating! You know what happens! You know!"

His voice, silk-smooth, like syrup. Drifting through the hefty door. "I've something to show you, Mr Irons. Something special."

He frowns, reaches for his pistol. The bastard would have to explain his way out of a black eye after this. He knew the bigwigs over at the medical bay didn't like him messing with the test subjects. But sometimes you had to teach them who ran the camp.

He fumbles for his keys, opens the door. Steps into the dark room.

It stinks of fertiliser. That smell, over everything else. They let him keep a garden. part of the experiment, he supposed. Too soft, he thought. Too soft on the git.

He was sat over a small patch of roses. He was smiling.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Irons chokes, holstering the gun.

He reaches for a single rose with delicate, graceful fingers, gently plucking it and handing it to the guard.

"Here," he says, smiling. "There are few of these left, Mr Irons. Perhaps the value of this will teach you a thing or two about the value of life."

Irons spits at him, hot rage flushing through his neck. He throws the flower to the ground, crushing it beneath his hobnail boots. "There!" he cries. "That's what I think of your bloody flower!" He turns to leave. "I should have them all torn up."

"But surely…" the man in Room Five says, still smiling serenely. "Surely in a world where there are no roses, the value of one is infinitely higher? Surely even you can see that?"

Irons shakes his head angrily. "You're absolutely balking," he sneers.

"We'll see, one day," the man says. His tone has changed completely now. That serene smile has faded as automatically as it appeared. "I'll teach you to appreciate the value of life, Mr Irons."

Irons shakes his head, slams the door, and then it's weeks later, and the camp is burning, and the bodies are melting, and the people are screaming…

And he's looking back, with those flaming eyes, and Irons knows he'll be back one day.

**05.00**

Richard Irons awakes quickly, his brow soaked in chilled sweat, his head swimming wildly. He glances around his surroundings, expecting to see those cold, heartless eyes, and instead he sees the normal grey surroundings of his Camberwell bedroom, Jean's dark lump sleeping next to him.

Somehow that's worse. He wants to throw up.

Richard Irons climbs out of bed. He walks over to his jeans, which still lay crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. He fumbles around inside. He finds the gun.

With his hands shaking, he sits in the seat at the end of the bed, rests the gun on his lap, and lights up a cigarette.

**05.30**

In the dark, cavernous depths of the Shadow Gallery, a man is calmly sharpening a blade. The mask is hung up in a cupboard along with the others, a row of grinning, all-knowing faces.

From the ancient Wurlitzer Dinah Washington is singing 'What a Difference a Day Makes.' He almost laughs at the coincidence, and then remembers that there is no such thing as coincidence. There is only careful planning, and patience.

And theatricality.

He reaches for his cloak, gently resting the blade against a wall. And prepares to embark once more into the night.

To be continued…


	4. 0600 to 0900

**VALUES**

**_Part Three_**

**06.00**

Jean Irons swam out of a grey haze, her eyes sore and used up. A small headache, like a hammer, was pounding around her temples. Morning sickness, she thought bitterly. Thought I lost that after Ted.

She sat up in bed, and all at once a hundred images flooded into her head, and none of them seemed to make sense.

The bed was empty. Somewhere over the course of the night she'd realised this, and she'd wrapped most of the blanket around her slumbering body. As a chill slithered from her brain and down into her gut, her eyes crossed the dim grey light of the room, to the hulking shadow standing by the window.

Richard was staring through the net curtains, out on to the street. A single lamp-post, one bleary orange eye, glowed weakly in the watery grey light of dawn. It cast his limp form in silhouette. But she could see that he was clearly clutching a handgun, and he was surrounded by cigarette butts, and the air was greasy with the stench of stale tobacco.

"Jesus, Richard," she muttered. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

For a moment he didn't hear or acknowledge her. Instead he carried on staring into the faint grey light, and she began to wonder if he'd gone mad. She went to say something else, her throat as dry as sandpaper, when Richard raised one finger to his mouth and whispered, "Shh…"

"Richard, what…" she began, and Richard spun round to her.

"SHUT UP!" he balked. "Please, God, Jean, be quiet! He can hear you!"

Jean wrapped the blanket tighter round her. She was scared, really scared. He'd never acted like this before. He got angry sometimes, lashed out at her, but he was always in control. But now… and with a gun…

"Who?" she croaked.

"Him!" he hissed. "Him! The man from the fire!"

She shook her head, almost beginning to wonder if she wasn't still in her dream. "What man? What are you saying?"

Suddenly Richard's arm had swung up to his side, and for a brief second the light flashed along the silver barrel of the gun. Jean cried out as he pointed the firearm at her. "BE QUIET!" he yelled.

"Please, no!" Jean screamed. "Please, Ritchie, think of Ted! Oh, God, no…"

Tears were streaming down her face now, unavoidably. Her body was a quivering mess, and she wanted to crawl into the bed, and down, and be away from Richard and his crazy grin, more than anything.

Slowly, he lowered the gun. "Yes," he said, as if in a trance. "Yes, Ted. Must think of Ted." He stood up and crossed the room, where he fumbled through a small pile of clothes on the floor and uncovered yesterday's shirt. "Must think of Ted."

He slipped out of the door, yanking on the shirt, shoving the gun down his trousers, and mumbling quietly to himself.

It was a long time before Jean could start breathing again, and as soon as she could, every breath a sharp, cold hitch, she tiptoed across the room and locked the bedroom door.

**06.30**

When all the roses died, the gardens at Abney Park no longer had a purpose. The new government had cemented over the centuries old benches and graves and wandering paths, and instead had erected a dull three-storey car park. It was only now, with oil so scarce and expensive that only the rich and powerful even bothered to drive, that they had begun to realise their mistake. As a result the car park at Abney Park now sat behind the old park railings, dark, crumbling and forgotten.

Pitt's Ford Escort, an ugly, rusted, blood-red heap of junk, but his most loyal friend, pulled up alongside the cemetery. He killed the engine with a grunt and looked at the ancient grey block, looking in the hazy grey light of dawn like a lost Egyptian tomb, all shadowy awnings and forgotten passages.

No roses here. He doubted there'd been roses here for a long time.

Another dud link.

"Damn!" he cried, slamming a hand on the dashboard.

He'd left Bond back at the station. The boy should have come off shift a long time ago, but this Irons business had held him back a few hours. He had been looking tired and ill. Pitt had seen him off, sat round the department for a while, made a few cups of coffee and had left for Abney Park.

He almost wished the boy had been here, just in case there was something he was missing. He wondered if he even cared any more.

Too damn tired, he thought as he left the car. Too damn tired.

The gates, all chipped black paint and rusted iron, were open. He pushed them aside with a loud squeak and stepped into the shadows of the car park. The opening, a small ramp leading into the darkness of the ground storey, looked as inviting as a cave. A yellow '12'' sign swung forlornly in the breeze from the roof.

He stepped up the ramp, into the yawning concrete chasm. Occasionally a car, rusted and forgotten, sat mouldering in tarry pools of oil. Other than that, it was just yards of dusty darkness and chipped concrete.

"Oh, this is bloody useless," he mumbled to himself, and turned to leave.

And stopped.

There was a small door near the entrance, an old white emergency exit. To where, Pitt wondered, was a real mystery. But the real enigma here was why the door was slightly ajar.

Terry Pitt crept up to the door, barely breathing, one hand gently rested against his gun. He peered at the crack.

Nothing beyond but darkness, as inviting as a cancer.

He rested one hand against the door and gently pushed it open.

The door swung open, far too loudly, creaking along its hinges, every inch of ancient rust screaming in agony with its movement, and opened up on a dark concrete staircase. Six short steps, leading to a turning, and beyond that?

With one arm steadying himself against the wall, Pitt began to descend the staircase, deep into the bowels of the car park and Abney Park cemetery.

**06.45**

The Finger Guard had arrived early.

Two young men, both looking tired and weary, stood at the doorstep of the Iron's comfortable semi. Probably just came on shift, totally unaware of the tedious job their superior had seen fit to charge them with.

Jean got the door. She looked shaken and almost physically sick, her hair tousled, still wearing a pink flannel dressing gown. Both Fingermen fought the urge to ask if she needed assistance.

"He's in the kitchen," she had said, and had left to retreat into the house.

They found Richard in the kitchen, as Jean had said. He was dirty, unshaven, dressed in a half open shirt. Half a cup of tepid coffee was cooling rapidly on the wooden table.

He was staring intently at the first weak rays of sunlight coming through the window. And he was holding a gun.

One of them stood in the doorway, coughed and said, "Excuse me, Mr Irons?"

Irons barely glanced up. "Yes?" he snapped.

The two men glanced at each other, and the former said, "We're from the Finger. You asked for protection?"

Irons turned to face them, scrutinised them for a second, and said, "Did he send you?"

Both men glanced at each other in utter desperation, wondering if this was all some sick joke. The second said, as politely as he could manage, "Who, Mr Almond?"

"No," Irons said, shaking his head. "Him."

"I can assure you that the only person who dispatched us, sir, was Mr Derek Almond of the Finger, and…"

"Show me your passes. Both of you."

The two men sighed, both wondering what insane task they'd been set with, and began to fumble through their pockets for identification. One after another they handed over two small laminated cards. Party IDs.

Irons scrutinised both of them for a while then, content that all was satisfactory, allowed the men to sit next to him round the kitchen table.

"See?" he chuckled after the two men had sat down. "They said I was losing it, back at HQ. Said I couldn't handle it in the field. Wouldn't let you two fool me though, eh?"

After a short confused silence, the first man, a man whose ID identified him as Julian Brown, said, "Excuse me, sir?"

"Always check their papers, Mr Brown!" Irons winked. "Always! Never know if they're an unbeliever. Or even one of his lot! Ha!"

"Sir?" the younger man, Bill Visconti, asked. "Might I enquire as to who this man is that you speak of?"

Iron's eyes suddenly narrowed, and all of his good cheer vanished in a flashed. "No," he frowned. "No, you bloody well can't. For your own sake."

With that he turned and put on the kettle, leaving his two guards in their own pits of confusion and despair.

**07.00**

The staircase had been short and narrow, turning every five steps, descending deep beneath the city. Along the way Pitt had rested against the wall to let his breath catch up, and had realised that the concrete walls had ended – the wall was now tiled, and the tiles were chipped and ancient.

The corridor opened up on an old elevator, a steel staircase that hadn't moved for maybe a decade.

An abandoned tube station.

His legs quaking, one sweaty hand still resting on the gun, Pitt began to descend the staircase, into the darkness. From somewhere up above water dripped steadily, running in streamlets over the disused machinery. Insects and small animals scuttled through the shadows and up the old tiled walls. Through small holes in the roof shafts of dim grey light shone through, picking out jagged edges and thousands of dancing dust particles.

Pitt began to walk down the forgotten staircase, past peeling posters, and down into the station.

Maybe this wasn't such a dud lead after all, he began to think, and then froze at the foot of the stairs.

There were roses here. Thousands of them, growing in small patches of sunlight, deep underground.

As he staggered backwards, something hard came down on his head, and he felt his legs collapse under him and his world spin out into darkness.

**08.30**

He sits on a rooftop in a quiet Camberwell suburb, watching through haunted eyes.

Down in the kitchen Irons continues to glance out the window. He's taken a shower, put on some clean clothes, and managed to compose himself a little, with the help of his Finger guard.

Maybe he's even starting to wonder if all this was some sort of joke. A coincidence.

He reaches for his blades.

He will assure him that it isn't.

To be continued…


	5. 0900 to 1200

**VALUES**

**_Part Four_**

**09.00**

He'd always been an insomniac, never managing a decent night's sleep. Always kept up thinking about this or that, to the point where he and his wife now slept in separate beds.

But I don't need this, Terry Pitt thought, as he swam into consciousness, and felt the huge pounding throb at the back of his head. The pain seemed to explode through his head and flashed ice cold bolts of agony into his temples.

He was sat on a damp stone floor, deep underground. His wrists were bound to an old iron pipe with tight rope. From somewhere water dripped endlessly, a steady stream in the darkness. And there were roses. Hundreds of roses.

Pitt began to struggle with his bounds, getting a hold of his position, attempting to understand his surroundings. Shafts of light pierced down through small holes in the roof, often illuminating the jagged criss-crosses of rusty black pipes along the way up, and casting pale white light on the sea of roses before him.

Come on, old man, he thought. You've been through worse than this.

From somewhere to the side he could hear footsteps. Fear froze up in a lump in his throat. He attempted to talk, but his words were lost somewhere in his throat and all that came out was a dry click.

"I didn't wake you, squire, did I?" an elderly voice said from the darkness.

An ancient man, all scruffy white hair and stubble, wearing an old coat, stumbled out into Pitt's vision, stepping carefully around the roses.

"No, no," Pitt managed to reply, fighting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of his situation. He'd been afraid of this? Just another derelict? "Come on, now, untie me, you bloody fool."

"Can't do that, squire," the man said solemnly. "You're with the party, aren't you?"

"Yes," Pitt said through clenched teeth, feeling the rage sear through him, getting hotter. "And if you don't untie me, you'll be in serious trouble."

"But if I does untie you, won't I be in serious trouble anyway, squire?" the old man chuckled.

Pitt snapped. "Stop playing silly buggers and untie these knots!" he screamed into the darkness. His voice echoed back forlornly. Pitt's head sank into his chest. Trapped alone, underground, with a nutter. No amount of screaming will get you out of this, Terry. Best to just sit and wait it out. Come on. Deep breaths.

The old man, still smiling and appearing almost to be in a daze, bent down and began to untie the knots that bound Pitt. As the ropes fell to the damp floor and Pitt had the chance to stretch his aching arms, trying to ignore the fire-slashes the ropes had worn into his wrists, he fought the urge to break his neck.

Instead, he pushed himself up and stretched out in the cavernous depths of the tube station. Yes, the tube station. Of course. That's where he was.

"Who are you with, then?" the old man asked, almost oblivious to Pitt's danger. "The Finger?"

"The Nose," Pitt replied, condescendingly. He rubbed the dirt off his jacket sleeves.

"Ah-ha!" the old man laughed. "Does Eric Finch still work up there?"

"Yes, of course he does." Pitt was growing increasingly tired of this chirpy old fool. He doubted very much if he could have masterminded anything on the scale of the scheme he was currently investigating. Unless, of course, this was all a part of it.

Oh, don't be daft, he thought. Him?

"Ah, Finch," the old man was saying. "A bit of a stiff by all accounts, but a nice fellow. Remember him from my days in the Nose."

"You were in the Nose?" Finch asked, suddenly cheering up.

"Aye," the man said, with a wry smile. "Gave it all up a few years back."

"What for?"

The man's gaze misted over, and he finally whispered, "I had an encounter. An encounter with a fellow in a mask."

Pitt's head throbbed angrily. What had he been thinking? This man, in the Nose? Had he been with them, he'd inevitably now lost his mind completely. He was certainly away with the fairies at the moment. By the state of his dress, he'd gone AWOL with them. "A man in a mask," he said cynically.

"Aye," the old man said. "Big smiley fellow, he was. Killed, ooh, I don't know how many people. Plenty. Me and another chap, Andy Thatcher, had his case, we did."

"And where is this Thatcher chap these days?"

"Oh, he was still with the Nose, when I left. Might still be there."

Pitt began to walk out of the shadows and to the staircase, wrapping his coat around him. "And the man with the mask?" he asked.

The old man winked, and in a split-second his face turned into an awful snarling leer. "Oh, he's still around. Told me about this place, he did. But he won't be back again. Not him. He's got other things on his mind."

Pitt frowned. "You sure you're happy to stay down here?" he said, but the old man had vanished into the shadows.

He sighed, shook his head, muttered "Silly get," and wandered back up to the world of light.

**10.00**

Jean Irons was leaving the house with young Ted, their six-year-old son. Visconti had escorted the pair to the door, even putting on their coats for them.

"Are you sure you two will be alright?" he asked, as they stood on the doorstep. Outside the air was cold and arid, the sky a crisp pale blue, the sun a watery smear across the east.

Jean smiled. "Fine, thanks," she said. She rubbed a hand through Ted's hair, who gave her a playfully upset scowl. "To be honest, I'm a little more concerned about you," she said to the Fingerman.

"Oh, don't you worry," Visconti replied. "I've had plenty of training, and…"

"No," she said. "No, it's Richard. He's not himself. And that gun. God, I don't know where he got it, but I don't like it." She stared into Visconti's dark eyes deep enough to see the white spark at the centre of each pupil. "Try and get it off him. Please." She lowered her voice a little more. "Do it for Ted."

Visconti nodded. "I'll do it for both of you," he smiled, and scratched the back of his head. "Are you sure you don't want a lift into town?"

"Yes, the bus will do fine," Jean said. "We're going to the British Museum, aren't we, Ted?"

"Yeah!" Ted cried. "Going to see all the old war stuff!"

Visconti almost seemed tempted to ruffle the boy's hair, but thankfully for Ted, thought better of it. Instead, he and Jean stared at each other for a little longer than was comfortable, giggled and then he finished with, "Have a good time. We'll try and help your husband."

Jean somehow felt tempted to throw her arms around him, this tall, handsome young man, this protection from her own damn husband, for god's sake, and kept it down only with the greatest willpower. Push it away, she thought. Think of Ted.

She walked to the bus stop.

**10.30**

Pitt's Ford Escort was parked outside the Nose Headquarters in Islington, a tall and soulless white concrete block on a busy high street. He stepped out on to the pavement as cars rushed past and shoppers made the most of the morning rush. As he almost staggered up the steps, tired, dishevelled, dirty and damp, occasionally getting glances from the perfectly attired women with pushchairs and gentlemen in basic Marks and Spencer suits, he reflected on his status.

A creature of the night, he thought bitterly. This world of daylight, of nine to five, of taking the kids out to pick up some food from Sainsbury's, wasn't for him. He was a hunter. He was a man of darkness, of sleazy bars, of moonlit back-alleys. He'd never asked for it, he thought as he nodded to the door guards. He'd been fated to it.

It was his calling.

He took the lift up to Finch's office with a small group of morning people – a couple of office workers in immaculate shirts, a pretty girl in a neat grey skirt and shirt. They granted him a few derogatory glances before ignoring him and glancing at their watches or at the lift walls.

The lift opened upstairs and he passed by more office workers, talking on phones, typing, writing up letters. More daylight people. More of those who's calling was to lead a stable life and clean up the mess that his people left in their wake. He bet that they didn't go home and argue with their wives and sleep in separate beds because of the damned insomnia. He bet they slept just fine at night. Because it was what they were meant to do.

He gently pushed open Finch's door.

"Ah," the Nose agent said, amiably. "Terry. You're looking a little rough this morning."

"Aye," Pitt responded, collapsing into a leather seat. "Been up all night working on this Irons case."

"Irons?"

"Richard Irons, over at the Finger. Some joker left a rose on his desk last night and he's completely flipped out. Reckon someone's out to kill him by midnight tonight or some nonsense."

Finch chuckled, a rare occurrence for him, and poked down his chipped, old pipe. "And that's been keeping you out of a warm bed? How's it coming along?"

"I followed up a lead that happened to take me right back here," Pitt said. "Do you know a guy called Thatcher? Andrew Thatcher?"

Pitt sat back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling. "The name does ring a few bells, yes," he said, sucking hard on his pipe. The cloying scent of pipe smoke filled the small office and drifted out into the chilly air drifting in through the open window.

Finch always kept the window open, regardless of the weather. Pitt never quite knew why. "Why don't you try seeing if you can dig up one of his files?"

"I was wondering if you couldn't maybe get me access to Fate," Pitt asked. "Might save a little time, you know."

Finch frowned. "Could be tough," he said. "But you are in luck. I've got a meeting with the leader in an hour. I'll give you a bell."

Pitt nodded. "Thanks Eric," he said.

He left Finch's office, wandered out into the lobby and collapsed on the seats outside. His eyes felt weighted down with black bags. The headache continued to pound unabated.

Some sleep, he thought. Just a little sleep.

**11.00**

"I'm not sure what's going on with him," Julian Brown said into the Iron's telephone. "He's calmed down a little now – just sat up in his room, mostly. But when we came in, he was brandishing a gun and going on about some man in the flames or something. Completely off his box."

From the kitchen Bill Visconti calmly stirred a cup of sour coffee. Brown was making the hourly report. As usual, they'd seen nothing.

When he'd started this whole ridiculous mission, he'd been counting down the minutes until the inevitable midnight no-show. But then he'd started talking to Mrs Irons, and although she was a little older than him, and married, he felt he'd begun to uncover something that had been buried deep down there. And that they'd really begun to hit it off.

Since she left, he'd found his mind drifting back to her at every opportunity. She wasn't bad looking, he'd thought. She was an old-looking mid-thirties – that was the stress, he'd guessed. But she was blessed with a face that aged well, and he got the feeling she looked best now.

She'd been pouring Ted's cornflakes when he noticed the red bruises running the width of her arm. He'd quizzed her about it, and she'd been a little hesitant at first, but something had clicked between them.

And it wasn't until Ted left that she had been on the brink of opening up. He was sure on that.

"Don't think too badly of him," she'd said, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. "He gets angry sometimes, is all. He had a hard childhood and he leads a stressful life. Don't get too mad at him."

And she'd reached over, and stroked his hand.

"Look, we'll stick with him till midnight, then we're gone, understand?" Brown ranted into the phone. "I'm not being paid to bloody baby sit the terminally bewildered… Yeah, goodbye."

He hung up and drifted moodily back into the kitchen.

Visconti didn't notice.

**11.30**

He looked at the house with eager eyes.

And leapt into action.

**11.50**

Julian Brown was having a bad day. He'd had a bad experience with a girl at the Kitty-Kat Keller last night (well, that morning, to be accurate), he'd been late for work, and now this. Now he'd spent the whole day hanging around this grotty little house in Camberwell.

He wanted to be out on the streets, dealing with young punks and nancy boys and the rest of them. He wanted a little bloody action, if that wasn't too much to ask for.

He poured another cup of tea, just to stay awake.

Behind him the back door opened. He didn't hear.

In fact, he didn't hear anything until it was too late.

**11.55**

Visconti wandered out of the bathroom and gently placed the Party Chronicle in the rack outside.

And noticed the horror in the eyes of Julian Brown.

He reached for his revolver, heard the rush of air behind him, turned…

**12.00**

Richard Irons sat on his bed, massaging his temples.

Maybe it had been a joke, he thought. God knew there had to be a way to get a rose these days, it wasn't that hard. Probably one of the other chaps playing silly buggers or something.

Yes, he was overacting.

He stared at his gaunt figure in the mirror, at his tussled hair, at his dishevelled clothes. You're a mess, Richard, he thought. A disgrace. Letting the night terrors get the better of you.

He turned to the window, and froze up.

There was a man crouched there. A man with a grinning face.

"Oh, bloody hell," he choked, stumbling back onto his bed. "Oh, god, no. Who the hell are you?"

"I have no name," the mask said, and smiled that all-knowing smile, freezing Iron's blood solid. "You can call me V."

To be continued…


	6. 1200 to 1500

_Author's Note: Thanks to all those who have read and reviewed the story thus far, and particular thanks to Pumpkinator for pointing out that rather embarassing mistake in Chapter Five. On my last read through I noticed a few more errors, such as for some reason referring to Pitt as 'Alan' as opposed to Terry in the first part. I'll clean them all up with the next update. Also, my apologies for the length of the next chapter - I'm setting everything up for the concluding chapters, which should all be a little shorter and snappier. _

**VALUES**

**_PartFive_**

**12.00**

"I have no name," the man in the mask said. "You can call me V."

Richard Irons collapsed on to the bed, his whole body quivering violently. He suddenly wanted to throw up or run or something, but his legs were frozen solid. It was all he could do to gasp and stutter weakly.

"You look fearful, Mr Irons," V said calmly. His cloak billowed out through the open window, out into the crisp winter's air. "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more, is it not?"

"How did you get here?" Irons finally managed to say, his words barely audible to himself. "The Fingermen…"

"Have fallen upon a most horrendous accident. An accident that has resulted in their passing. As Ben Johnson once said, 'Allow for accidents. Allow for human nature. Especially your own.'" He yanked his cloak close around him, and the frozen mask just smiled. "For it was your doing, wasn't it, Mr Irons? Your failure to acknowledge the value of human life. Your own dismal failure to recognise it's worth. You hire two men to throw down their lives for yours and act surprised when they meet with death? It was at your own bloody hands! But whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."

"That's not true!" Irons cried weakly. "That was never my intention! You don't understand…"

"Don't I?" V said, an edge of anger rising beneath that calm, perpetually smirking façade. "I remember you, Mr Irons. I remember the way you used to bang on the doors sometimes just to make us jump. I remember when you'd kick over our plates of food and half-starve us in doing so, just as we were getting desperate. I remember how much pleasure you took in the torture and the interrogation. And I remember the way you'd hit the prisoners when they weren't looking, sometimes just to warm your hands on a cold day. And there were many cold days, Mr Irons. Bright cold days in April, when the clocks were striking thirteen."

Irons was crawling backwards on the bed. V stayed perfectly still, the black holes of his eyes keeping a steady fix on the quaking, pale figure on the bed.

"There is but twelve hours left," V said. "Twelve hours for you to show that you understand the true value of life. Try and stay the right side of sanity, Mr Irons. And remember what the dormouse said." His body turned to the window, but his eyes kept staring. "Feed your head."

And then he leapt out into the city beyond.

It was a long time before Irons could muster up the strength to walk, and when he finally did he seemed to be moving in a daze, as if he were under the influence of alcohol. His head swam wildly, thoughtless, blank. Cold fear churned in his stomach and he wanted to be sick. His gut seemed weightless.

He stumbled steadily out of the door, to the top of the stairs. He peered down.

Yes, there was the body of one of the Fingermen. Visconti, he thought dimly. Nice young man.

He wandered slowly down the stairs.

Visconti had taken three bullets. A large splatter of blood ran up the wall behind him, almost to the roof, so dark it was almost black. One of the bullets had taken off much of the Fingerman's head. His eyes, almost accusing, stared ahead at the other corpse.

Julian Brown lay on his side, almost curled into a foetal position. A puddle of blood and empty shell cartridges lay around him like a shrine. He still clutched the gun, and as Irons looked, a small wisp of smoke rose up in to the still kitchen.

He slumped to his knees. His hands fell to his sides.

Oh Christ, this couldn't be happening. This could not be happening.

He checked that he still had his gun.

Then he did something that he hadn't done since junior school.

He burst into helpless tears.

**12.30**

Jean Irons remembered when the British Museum had actually held artefacts. Real cultural treasures, from all across the world. Those memories, though, like all the memories of the old world, were faint and distant. A lot had happened since then. All she had left were blurry snapshots of memory, faded sepia images of a little girl looking at Egyptian tombs and Georgian portraits and dinosaur skeletons. Little negatives of a world Ted would never know.

Right now he'd have to be content with The English Museum, still in the same building, but all the foreign artefacts, all the remnants of a colourful and creative culture, had been destroyed. In its place was a huge propaganda display – room after room of soldier's uniforms, guns, poorly-drawn illustrations of great British victories – Waterloo, Trafalgar, the Second and First World Wars, right up to the Falklands. Union Jacks, with the Norsefire 'N' imprinted across the centre.

Still, it seemed to thrill Ted, who looked at the battered uniforms and old firearms with the sort of interest only a child could muster.

Jean's mind, however, was elsewhere. She was thinking of Visconti – of his pretty eyes, of the spark that jumped between them when they talked. And how, when she left this place, Ted be damned, she was going to run away with him.

A way out, she reflected. It's what you've been waiting for.

And she realised that she was being unfair – that, despite his temper, Richard was still a good husband. He had a steady job, he kept the mortgage payments up. He loved and cared for Ted. He had his flaws, sure, but, hell, maybe that was more to do with her. You're awfully hard on him sometimes, she reflected. And would you want to screw all that up with Visconti?

No. No, it wasn't worth it.

"Mummy!" Ted cried, yanking on her sleeve suddenly. They'd somehow wandered into the Clock Chamber, a display of British-made clocks and watches. None of them were particularly amazing, but they were all functional. Some, the plaques beneath read, had been used on great battlefields. There was a clock, set to eleven minutes past eleven, said to have kept time during the Battle of the Somme. Another small pocket-watch was said to have belonged to Wellington during the Battle of Waterloo.

"Isn't it lovely?" Jean said, feigning interest.

Ted stared intently at a white wall display, all pocket-watches dating from the Boer War. "What did people do before clocks?" he asked.

Jean thought about the question. "I guess they used sundials and stuff," she said. "You know, some people think that since people invented the clock, they became a slave to time. Because instead of saying, 'I'll start work or I'll go to school when the sun's up,' they could give themselves specific times, like nine o'clock."

"I think I'd rather be around before," Ted said. "Could stay in bed longer."

They both laughed, but Jean laughed with her mouth only. A slave to time, she thought. That's me. Counting down the minutes till Richard snaps and does some serious damage. Run with Visconti. Get away.

And the thought sent adrenaline rushing wildly through her system. For the first time since she became Mrs Irons, she felt truly alive. And she decided that, perhaps, she did love Bill after all.

**13.00**

The old Grandfather Clock in the cavernous depths of the Shadow Gallery chimed thirteen times.

The jukebox played a forgotten Rolling Stones song, 'Let's Spend The Night Together.' He barely heard it, but reflected that he would be spending the night with an entirely different person.

All the pieces were in place now, the instruments warming up, the players taking their seats. He had only to conduct, to guide things along, to keep the music flowing to its ultimate crescendo.

As the voice of Mick Jagger radiated around the cave, he thought of how the different strands were all lining up now, the disparate strands that would create his symphony of death. It would take a small amount of intervention on his part to move them together as one.

He left for a dark room with a huge computer terminal, through which he would keep one eye on events.

**13.30**

Eric Finch's return to his office caused Pitt to snap instantly back into consciousness from his brief slumber. His head continued to throb, and he had a weird taste in his mouth. The sunlight through the blinds, thin and watery, pierced his heavy eyes. He stretched and sat up.

"Sorry to wake you," Finch said, with a friendly and rare smile. "Catching forty winks on the job, are you?"

"Oh, sorry, Eric," Pitt replied, still adjusting to the world. A few office workers granted him concerned looks and went back to their work. "I'm sorry, I've had about two hours sleep in the past thirty-six, and one of those cat-naps barely counts. Did you speak to Susan?"

"Aye. You hit the jackpot today. You're free to access Fate's database from the terminal in my office."

"Smashing." Pitt stood up, stretched, attempted to infuse his muscles with some life, and yawned. "You don't mind me using your office, then?"

"Not at all," Finch said, stuffing a small measure of tobacco into his pipe. "But you might want to think about heading home some time soon, you look absolutely knackered. Take the afternoon off, if you…"

"No, thanks," Pitt said, entering Finch's office. "I'd best finish this up. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to see it through to the end now. If it gets too much and I change my mind, I'll let you know. Until then, I'm going to keep the kettle warm and get to the bottom of this."

Finch shrugged. "Well, it's your decision. I'm off on call for an hour, see you later."

Pitt and Finch bid each other farewell and Finch left to attend to his business.

It didn't take long for Pitt to access the Fate network. He had some basic knowledge of computers, mostly accumulated through years of necessary research. Sometimes there was nothing better than a computer with information on every citizen in the country to lead you to a criminal.

The name 'Andrew Thatcher' produced a list of three hundred and thirty seven people. He narrowed it down to employees of the Nose, and was left with three.

Two, one an AS THATCHER, were still employed. The last had been retired for a year and a half.

Riding his lucky streak, Pitt accessed the retired Thatcher. Andrew Francis Thatcher was a former Nose agent and, prior to that, Fingerman from Northumberland. He'd been with the Nose since it's inception and apparently had retired for 'personal reasons.' He'd been pensioned off and now lived in Highgate.

Pitt scribbled everything down in a notebook, did the same for the other two, grabbed his coat and left for his car, already feeling alive again.

**14.00**

Richard Irons finally broke two hours after finding the bodies of the Fingermen. He hadn't dared touch them – in fact, he hadn't dared gone near them. If he didn't contaminate the scene, there was a greater chance of them picking up clues that would lead to the bastard. He had to have screwed up somewhere. They'd find it out.

He'd made a vain attempt to contact Jean, perhaps warning her away from the house, perhaps just for defence. Then he'd sat in the living room, chain-smoking the remainder of his packet in a desperate bid to kill the shakes. There'd been the remainder of a bottle of Gordon's in the cabinet. He cleared that off. Checked he had his gun. Returned to the living room.

Checked one last time if there were any cigarettes left.

There weren't.

As the crumpled cigarette packet dropped to the carpet, he suddenly found himself thinking about the man he had been when he'd bought them from a street vendor just yesterday evening. Had he even thought, in his wildest nightmares, that his life could have plunged into the depths of insanity that it had plunged into today? A wave of hopeless nostalgia hit him hard, and he began to realise that normal life was a fragile thing. That one second you can have everything, and it takes just one pink rose on a table to blow it all to hell and leave you out here in the cold and the dark.

With a shaking hand he finally broke. He called the Finger.

"Hello, you've reached the Finger," a young lady's voice said down the line. "How may I help you?"

Irons went to talk, and found that his throat was dry. All that came out was a feeble, "I.."

After a short gap, the lady said, "Hello? Is there anybody there?"

"They're dead," Irons finally managed to say. "The Finger Guard. Dead. Both of them."

"I'm sorry?" the young lady replied.

"This is Irons! The Finger Guard you dispatched! He got them! Shot them dead, like a couple of dogs! Oh, Christ, you got to send someone here…"

"Wait, sir, I'm sorry," the secretary said. "Who is this?"

"Richard Irons! Richard Irons, of the Finger, of you! I work for you! Go ask Mr Almond, he'll tell you I've had a Finger guard due to an attempt on my life. And they've both been killed!"

"Ok, I… I'll be back in a minute."

The phone hit the desk with a soft thud and Irons fell to the stair, his hand so slicked with sweat that the phone nearly fell out.

Listen to you, he thought. You sound like a cretin. Just calm down. Take a deep breath. It'll be alright. They'll send over a guard, maybe even escort you somewhere safe. Somewhere he can't get at you.

And even through at all, there was a small voice saying 'Did you see him move? There's nowhere in the world that's safe. He'll get you anywhere, and you're dead. Run if you want, but you'll never escape. You've seen his eyes.'

"Sir?"

"Sorry?"

"I said there'll be two guards down there as soon as possible. Try and stay low. Are you armed? Is the killer still there?"

"Yes, no," Irons replied, floating on adrenaline. "Tell them to hurry, for god's sake."

"Ok, sir," the young woman responded, and hung up, leaving Richard Irons alone in his fear and paranoia.

**14.30**

Pitt arrived at Andrew Thatcher's small semi feeling truly awful. Along the way he'd manage to buy a muddy coffee from a Supersaver's in a horrible Styrofoam cup, and had he been in any other state of mind he could never have brought the foul liquid to his lips, let alone finish it. But he succeeded in both, and instead of waking him up, he now felt sick as well as tired.

On shaky legs he wandered up Thatcher's brief drive and surveyed the home. Pebble-dashed, well-looked after front lawn with a few tasteful ornaments. It could have been any other middle class home in the country.

He pushed the doorbell, and a charming chime rang back. It all seemed so normal, so still and silent. To think of what lurked beneath sent a shudder down Pitt's back, and he felt he could see the dark world lurking beneath the pleasant blue skies and shimmering emerald lawns, just beneath the surface.

He could feel it rising.

After a long time, a gaunt old man with neat white hair and a face like parchment, opened the door. He stared silently at Pitt.

"Mr Thatcher?" Pitt asked.

The old man nodded suspiciously.

"Terry Pitt," the agent said. "I work for the Nose. Could I come in?"

"Ah," the old man sneered. "The Nose. What are you wanting round here, then?"

"I'd just like to ask a few questions, Mr Thatcher. If you don't mind."

"Come on, then," Thatcher sighed. "You'd best come in."

Pitt was led into an ordinary front room, and once again he got the feeling that it was all just set dressing – tasteless little porcelain doll ornaments, commemorative plates, photographs of relatives on the mantelpiece – all little props, intended to create the appearance of a normal, retired life. That beneath it all there was a very dark story, lurking just inches beneath the net curtains and cheap seaside-souvenirs.

"Take a seat," Thatcher said.

Pitt almost collapsed into a threadbare armchair. Thatcher sat opposite him, and stared at him like he was an interesting insect specimen.

Feeling he'd better justify his presence, Pitt began the inquisition. "I'm investigating a threat on the life of an agent of the Finger," he began. "During the course of my investigation I had a run-in with a man who claimed that he worked on a similar case with you a few years ago."

"Oh, god," Thatcher groaned, and suddenly appeared to age by a decade. "It's him, isn't it? He's back."

"I'm sorry?"

"The man in the mask," Thatcher frowned. "He's back, isn't he?"

"You know him?"

"Know him?" Thatcher cried. "That bastard ruined my career." He sighed, and reached for a dirty chipped teacup that sat in the ancient white carpet. "It was last year. Me and old Harry Linderman were investigating the sudden death of a promising young city banker. Autopsy report showed traces of poison, but he went down on the records as dying of natural causes. We did a little research, and found an interesting fact about our victim. He had worked at the resettlement camp in Larkhill."

"The what?" Pitt exclaimed.

Thatcher grinned, a hideous old man's grin. It made Pitt think of the awful leer he'd seen on Harry Linderman's face, in his cave deep beneath the earth. Edging in closer, Thatcher said, "Yes, I thought as much. Not many people know about Larkhill, even party members. I'd imagine they'd keep things like that away from the public."

"Well, I knew the government had resettlement camps," Pitt said calmly. "All those non-believers had to be shipped somewhere, we all knew that. This is the first I've heard of this Larkhill, mind."

"No, I doubt anyone will ever truly know what went on there," Thatcher chuckled. "Old Finch, maybe. A few of the other party higher-ups. Do you know Lewis Prothero worked there?"

"The Voice of Fate? No."

"Yes, I imagine they'd keep that quiet," he said, and slumped back in his chair. "We did a little research, managed somehow to get access to Fate. And discovered that our friend had struck before. And he was due to strike again." His eyes misted over, and Pitt got the feeling that the darkness was starting to surface briefly now, like a submarine breaking through crystal clear waters. "We got together a small group of Fingermen, me and Harry. Sent them down to protect another man, an old munitions worker, he was. Had his house completely covered, surrounded by armed men. No-one could get within a hundred yards of the place. And yet…"

Thatcher's voice fell silent. Pitt felt tempted to urge him on, knowing that he was getting close now. As Pitt watched, Thatcher's hand gripped the seat a little tighter.

"I was sat in the house, talking to this man, this munitions worker. He had a dog, a little Scottie. We were chattering away, smoking, occasionally watching the telly. I decided to go out for a walk. I knew something was wrong when no-one was watching the front." His eyes lit up horrendously. "They were dead! All of them, scattered around the outskirts of the house. Not a single shot had been fired! He'd just taken them all out, one after another."

"My god," Pitt mumbled.

"I panicked. Went round looking for old Harry. Well, I found him alright." Thatcher's hand was shaking violently. "Saw him just as he was lifted up. That man in the cloak, leapt down from the roof, grabbed him, and just swept him away. God knows what he did to him."

Pitt knew full-well what had happened to poor Mr Linderman. "And did you see his face?" he asked.

"Oh, aye," Thatcher said, and the grin was back now. "He had a smiley face, like an old Guy Fawkes. Remember those? Penny for the Guys? Well, he looked like one of those. A big grinning face."

Pitt nodded solemnly. "Thank you very much, Mr Thatcher," he said, pulling on his coat and turning to leave.

"One more thing," Thatcher called after him. Pitt turned to see the old man staring at him intently, almost forbidding him to leave. "We never told a soul about what happened that night. Far as I know, I was the only survivor. It wasn't worth it. I saw what that… that thing… could do. And for your sake, I wouldn't tell a soul either. And I'd let what will happen, happen. Go home, detective, and forget all about it. He'll get his prey one way or the other." He smiled again, one last time. "God knows he deserves it, this chap you're looking after. What they did at Larkhill… well, that was awful."

Pitt thanked him, but Thatcher had stopped listening, and was instead lost in his own thoughts.

He wasn't about to leave Irons to die, not at this stage on the game. Not when he was this close. That wasn't the way he'd been brought up. He'd see this through to the end now.

**14.55**

The Finger Guard arrived at the Irons household.

Richard rushed out to meet them, and suddenly realised that they were grabbing his arms and throwing him into the back of the van.

"Hang about!" he cried. "What are you up to?"

"You are under arrest, Mr Irons," the Finger Guard frowned. "For the murders of Mr Julian Brown and Mr William Visconti. And if I were you, I'd keep it quiet. Some of the boys are very upset."

The doors slammed shut on Irons, and he was driven away.

To be continued…


	7. 1500 to 1800

**VALUES**

**_Part Six_**

**15.15**

Jean left the bus with Ted in her hand and wandered determinedly back to her home. Her legs were shaking violently and her stomach was making slow, steady flips. But her head was light, and she was determined that this would be the moment that would change history for her and Ted. And for Richard, for that matter.

She wanted to walk into her home, to fall into Visconti's arms, to tell him how much she really cared about him. And then, with the Fingerman behind her, she'd confront her husband. She'd tell him that she was tired of the beatings, tired of having to wear long jumpers to hide the bruises, tired of telling her girlfriends that she fell down the stairs or she knocked her leg on the table. She'd tell him that she had a new man now. Then she'd tell him (and she'd been thinking about this for a long time – it had to be perfect, she reflected, this was history you were making here) that she no longer loved him. She, in fact, hoped that he'd never find another woman again. Because he certainly didn't deserve one.

Jean turned up the pathway of the Camberwell semi, and realised horribly that something was wrong. There were Fingermen stood around in the front garden, muttering and smoking. Yellow bands were wrapped round the door. Occasionally a forensic expert would wander past.

For a moment, for one strange moment, she felt elated. He's finally done it! she thought victoriously. Either he's topped himself, or whatever nutter was after him did it instead. A small part of her was convinced that Visconti had done the heroic thing and taken revenge on him, freed him from her life forever.

"Excuse me, what's going on?" she asked the nearest Fingerman.

The man turned at her, sneered and said, "Is it any of your business?"

"Yes, this is my house," Jean said, exasperated. "What's going on?"

"Oh, Mrs Irons," the man said solemnly. "I take it you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

The Fingerman suggested that she send Ted away, and she did as nicely as possible, asking him to wait on the bench in the garden whilst she talked to the nice man. He did as he was told, and then Jean looked up at the Fingerman expectantly.

"It's your husband," he said finally, and a part of Jean fluttered ecstatically. "He went mad. Killed his two guards."

Jean stared blankly at him for a moment, feeling all the joy and the freedom come crashing down around her. Finally, almost incapable of speech, she said, "What?"

"Shot them both dead," the Fingerman said. "I'm sorry. He's down at the station. I knew the deceased. Nice lads."

"Visconti?" she choked. "Is he ok?"

"No," the man said, as if talking to a difficult child. "He was one of the victims. Again, I'm awfully sorry."

"God," Jean sighed, and collapsed on the bench by Ted.

She heard him call up to her, asking her if daddy was ok, but it came through a vague haze. It no longer mattered. All her chances of freedom, of a new life, shattered in one moment. One quick blow. You damn fool.

Unable to take it anymore, she started to sob.

**15.30**

Richard Irons was led by shunting hands through the bleak, colourless corridors of the Finger's headquarters. Two men at his sides kept his arms held tight, but with the cuffs on he wasn't going anywhere.

"Hey, Mikey," he sobbed. "Mikey, man, it's me. It's Richard. Come on, mate, take off these cuffs, will you?"

Mikey, a stocky man in a shirt and tie, barely flinched.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Richard cried. "We went for a drink just last week! Oh, you can't be serious… come on, man!"

Irons looked desperately at his captors. This was all rapidly descending into some unimaginable nightmare, some strange foggy dream which he expected at any moment to awake from. To wake up in his pale grey room, with that big beaming mask saying, "Feed your head, Mr Irons, feed your head…"

What did that mean, anyway? It was a quote, wasn't it? Some old beatnik band. Female singer. Jefferson Airplane. White Rabbit.

Stop it, man, pull yourself together.

The guard, Mikey, clutched on to Iron's arm and threw him into a small, bare cell. Then, wordlessly, he shut the door and locked it fast.

Richard flung himself at the door, screaming, "Oi! Hey, what are you doing? This has all been a big mistake! I didn't kill them… Wait!"

His words fell on deaf ears as his two guards disappeared down the corridor.

Feed your head. Feed your head.

He slumped back to the mattress and curled into a foetal position.

**16.00**

Terry Pitt was sat in a dismal roadside café when he got the call.

Outside what had once been a fine day had suddenly gotten cloudy, and the streets were lit an eerie white. No rain yet. Just dim, miserable clouds, stretching on and on. And that weird light.

He wordlessly slid a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a cheap Bic lighter. Apart from a harangued-looking waitress and a couple of truckers, the café was empty. A TV blared endlessly in the corner, showing a rerun of some dull Northern soap. Fuzzy voices mumbled on in the background as Pitt racked his brains.

This was all a big game, wasn't it? The roses, the warnings, the threats. All a big game and Irons was at the centre. This masked fellow was toying with his prey like a cat with a mouse, pinning him down, convincing him that he had a chance of survival before tearing him up.

He checked his watch, taking a brief drag on his cigarette. A little after four.

Eight hours.

And then he got the call.

A brief rumble in his pocket. Pitt reached for his phone, jammed the answer button and said, "Pitt here."

"Mr Pitt?" The voice was young, a little inexperienced. But recognisable. "It's Dominic, Mr Finch's aide. I've been told to let you know that your man's been arrested."

"Arrested?" Pitt cried, dropping his cigarette to the floor. "What… how?"

"Not sure on the details, sir, but I believe he shot dead two Fingermen."

"His guard." Pitt winced. It wasn't the shock of this happening, it was the fact that none of it made sense. He almost began to wonder if what he was hearing was real.

"I think so," Dominic continued. "Anyway, they've got him in holding down at Finger HQ, if you want to go down and have a word."

"The house," Pitt said. "Did he kill them in the house?"

"Yes. Yes, one of our agents is already there…"

"Send him home!" Pitt cried. "I'll be right there."

He killed the phone, pulled on his coat and ran out the door.

**16.30**

Jean had sent Ted over a neighbour's house to stay for the time being.

She'd made her mind up. She was going to visit her husband.

**16.45**

With aching poignancy, Richard reflected on how bizarre this role reversal was.

This time yesterday, he'd been sat opposite this chair, holding a cigarette, well into the interrogation of a suspected homosexual sympathiser. He'd been wiping his own brow of sweat, drinking his own glass of water. And, when the need arose, punching the little queer straight in the jaw.

Had he realised how utterly horrifying it was on the other side, to be the victim, he reflected that, perhaps, he'd have gone a little easier.

"Come on, now, Rich," the interrogator said. Young guy. Probably showed him all the ropes, Rich thought bitterly. "You know we don't like to see our own boy's go down. Confess now, and you'll get off easy. A few years time and then you'll be out, and probably back in your old job like nothing happened. And all you have to do is sign that confession sheet."

"That's bollocks," Richard snarled. "You can't piss me about, I've done this longer than you. Soon as I put pen to paper you'll have me dragged in front of a wall and I'll get the six-gun salute."

"Well, that's fine," the kid said. "You want the truth? I doubt they'd waste the bullets. Not on a murdering git like you. No, way I see it the easiest way to get rid of you would be to let the rest of us have our fun."

With a wide, malevolent smirk the kid walked across the room, to the very desk where just yesterday Richard Irons himself had reached for a confession, and returned clutching a very nasty blade. Long, thin, a blue razor edge. "See," he said with an almost friendly smile. "The boss was rather upset at what you did to two of his favourite agents. You've embarrassed the Finger no end. Why, in fact he's down at the Head as we speak getting his arse chewed by our beloved leader." The kid wandered round to where Irons sat, slowly tossing the blade back and forth in his hand. "If he gets back and none of your blood has been spilt, I'd say my job's just about through."

Irons gripped the chair arms. Come on, he thought. You've been trained to take this. Focus on something else, lock the pain away. It's a known fact that the human body can withstand any amount of pain. So take it like a man.

"What's it going to be, then?" the kid whispered in his ear. "An ear? An eye?"

Irons was ready for the first slash. He tightened up the muscles on his left cheek as the blade came down, leaving a fire-stroke of blood laced across his cheek. A splatter hit his shoulder and he fought back to the urge to cry out.

Fight it, Richard. Fight it. Tears streamed down his cheek.

The kid gently placed the blade against his eye.

"This'll hurt, Ritchie," he sniggered. "This'll hurt a lot."

Jesus, Richard thought weakly, oh, Jesus, think strong, think strong…

"That's enough."

A deep voice from the door. Richard peered up, to see the silhouette of another Fingerman. It was Mikey.

"Come on," he said. "Stop playing around with him. I don't know what Almond told you, but he doesn't want a scratch on him. Not yet. You know the rules." The kid sighed, letting the bloody knife fall to his side. "Go on, take a coffee break."

Mikey walked in and sat in the chair opposite Irons as the kid slunk off. He frowned for a moment, staring at Irons, with his red-rimmed ears and his weeping wound. "You're looking rough."

"Thanks," Irons replied. "Listen, thanks a lot, man, that kid was barking…"

"Don't think I did that for you," Mikey snarled. "I got a call from the Nose. Apparently they want you kept in a decent state for the time being. One of their own agents is popping down. And since the Leader isn't exactly delighted with Mr Almond at the moment, it seems the odds are stacked in your favour. For now."

Two men wandered in and escorted Irons back to his cell.

**17.00**

The Iron's household looked desolate now that most of the law agencies had left. The doors were tied up with yellow tape and traffic cones blocked the driveway. Inside the lights were off and, in the early dusk dark, it looked cold and unfriendly.

A tired, ill Terry Pitt wandered up the driveway and ducked under the yellow tape. The door lay open. Inside a few pairs of shoes were on the carpet, next to a mat. Children's shoes, adults shoes, slippers. Just an average family's collection.

Pitt sighed and shut the door behind him.

It didn't take him long to see where the bodies had been. Two chalk outlines, one scribbled halfway up the wall, the other lying flat in the kitchen. Two large maroon bloodstains lay beneath them, one of which was splattered up the wall. There were bullet holes in the wall and plaster, and empty shells, circled in chalk, lying around them on the floor.

Pitt knelt down and examined the chalk lines. Looked at their positions. Looked at how the bodies fell.

Ok, he thought. They were shot.

Oh, well bloody done, detective.

He sighed and glanced at the brass badges on the floor, little nametags for the deceased. Ok, he thought. Let's think this through.

He looked at the position of Brown's body and followed him into the kitchen. The kitchen chair, with a large chalk circle round the bottom, was pushed a far way from the table. Half a cup of coffee, dried to a tar, was still sat gathering dust. So, he thought. You're Julian Brown. You've sat down with your cup of coffee, maybe thinking of this and that. You hear a noise. So you get up to see what's going on, and of course, you bring your gun.

Pitt carefully walked across the room, to the edge of Brown's chalk-line. And then this masked man appears, and you open fire, but he's too fast and he shoots back. Sure. The noise of all the gunfire brings Visconti out of the toilet, who also manages to get a few shoots out, none of which hit, before he's shot as well.

But that makes no sense. Besides the fact that none of his witnesses had ever suggested that this character in the mask used a firearm, they were at too close a range. There was no way in hell, however fast he moved, that none of those bullets could have hit. And with both Visconti AND Brown shooting?

Besides, he'd have to have known exactly what firearm the Fingermen used, in order to set up the frame.

Unless, of course, he didn't shoot them.

"My god," Pit mumbled under his breath.

He walked between the two bodies. Looked at the bullet-holes in the wall, in the floor. Looked at how the two men had fallen.

"Oh Jesus," he said. "They shot each other."

He moved back into the kitchen, looked at the coffee. So you're Julian Brown, and you're drinking your coffee, and you're thinking your thinks, and you hear a noise. You reach for your shooter. Pitt began to walk across the room, finding himself staring at the bathroom.

You take a look around. You're a little edgy. Visconti walks out the bathroom. Gives you a funny look.

And then he strikes, leaping between them, and both men open fire, aiming for this man in a mask that moves like a meteor between them. They both miss, riddling each other with bullets. Because, of course, they're standard issue Finger guns, the very kind that Irons would be carrying for self-defence.

Yes, this was a complicated game alright.

Pitt left for his car. He wanted a word with Richard Irons.

**17.30**

"You have a visitor, Mr Irons," Mikey said, opening the cell door.

Richard expected it to be Jean, doubtless having just found out about this whole thing. Jean would believe him. She'd better bloody believe him, or he'd knock the tar out of her, soon as this Nose chap sorted this whole thing out. He'd taken enough crap today, not to mention the permanent scar he'd be stuck with forever, the one he'd spent the past half hour painfullycleaning out.

Mikey led the Fingerman to the Relative's Room, a cordoned-off block with a long row of seats. There were few people here. The Finger generally liked to keep their prisoners secret. Jackboots on the stairs and all that.

He took his seat opposite another. There was a brief gap, and then Jean Irons was led in.

She looked different, Richard thought as she sat down. More… determined. Angry, even. She stared blankly at him for a moment and then said, "So why did you do it, Richard?"

"Listen here, Jean, before you start throwing accusations at me…" he balked, but Jean wasn't going to give him the chance to tell his sob story.

"No, you listen here!" she cried. "I've had enough of it! I knew you'd crack some day, and I'm glad it's been now ratherthan later, because otherwise I might have ended up killing you myself. And you're not worth me throwing my whole life away to do that."

"Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Richard cried. "You wait till I'm out of here, you're going to be looking for your teeth, you cheeky mare…"

"No!" Jean screamed. "No, I won't! You're not going to lay another finger on me, Richard Irons! I'm tired of telling myself that I love you when I know it isn't true, and I'm tired of raising my son around you. You're a pig, Richard. A woman-beating pig."

Richard slammed his palms on the glass. "You wait, you bitch!" he screamed. "You wait!"

Jean stood up. "I can wait my whole life!" she yelled back at him. "I hope they take you outside and shoot you, you bastard! I'll be happy to do it myself! It's over, Richard! Over!"

She turned to walk out, sobbing into her hands.

"Yeah, you better run!" Irons yelled after her. "Run back to your home and to that brat of a child of ours. Go on! Because as soon as I'm out you're dead, you mouthy cow!"

The Fingermen rushed in on both sides, one to comfort Jean, who was almost crying into hysterics, and another to lead Irons back to his cell.

As they dragged him away, he made a solemn promise with himself that he'd be avenged on that two-faced bitch. He'd mess up her pretty face with glass, if that was what it took.

Just as soon as he was out.

To be continued…


	8. 1800 to 2100

**VALUES**

**_Part Seven_**

**18.00**

It's been eighteen hours, Pitt thought, as he walked up the steps of the Finger's HQ. Eighteen hours ago you were looking forward to knocking off your shift and going home and getting a good night's sleep.

He'd forgotten about sleep a long time ago. He had to finish this now, see this through to the end. Whatever game was being played, whoever was pulling the strings, he was doubtless a part of it now. In too deep, no turning back.

He nodded politely to the guard on the door, stepped through into the reception area.

"Hello," he said to the receptionist. "Terry Pitt, with the Nose. I'm here to see one of your prisoners."

The receptionist looked up, smiled and said, "Ah, Mr Pitt. We've been expecting you. Do you have any ID?"

Pitt flashed his ID card and the receptionist typed some information into her computer. A few seconds later she said, "R. Irons?" He nodded. "If you speak to that guy on the door over there, he'll lead you to the cell."

The Nose agent glanced at the hulking figure in the party uniform standing by the door, frowned and walked towards him. The guard wordlessly led Pitt through the maze of corridors to Richard Irons.

**18.10**

There were photos laid out on the kitchen table of the Iron's household. Hundreds of snapshots of their existence, all giving the lie to a happy family life.

Jean Irons flicked through them again and again in her lonely kitchen, stifling back the tears. Here was Richard holding her from the ramparts of a chateau in France. Here was Richard grinning from a rubber ring in the sea off Margate. Here was a passport photo picture of the two of them, taken a lifetime ago when she'd just left school and he was a fresh-faced young squaddie.

I loved you once, Richard, she thought. I'm sure I did.

And it's awfully lonely here now.

Outside the wind howled loudly, through the thin windows. Jean got up and closed the curtains.

**18.15**

Pitt was led by his wordless guard into a small room, lit only by a lamp. A table was positioned in the middle of the room, and two chairs. An interrogation room, Pitt thought, taking a seat.

Irons was led in from the door opposite, bound in handcuffs. He was roughly thrown to his seat by his guard. The man was a mess, Pitt thought sadly. Had a huge scar down one cheek, doubtless from a little creative interrogation. His eyes were as wide as a hunted rabbit. He'd been in prison for just a few hours, and he looked to be on the brink of insanity.

Pitt dismissed his Finger-guard, who reluctantly left. He hadn't forgotten what Thatcher had told him. If he was going to risk being alone with this guy, it was a risk he was willing to take.

"Mr Irons," he smiled. "So we finally meet."

"Are you going to get me out of here?" Irons hissed desperately.

"No, I'm not," Pitt replied frankly. He raised a cigarette to his lips and wordlessly lit it. "But I am here to help you."

"You're no bloody help to me if I'm stuck in here!" Irons cried. "I'm a sitting duck!"

"Richard," Pitt said calmly. "At the moment, you're the safest man in London. Believe me, it ain't easy to break into Finger HQ. You've got nothing to fear. Would you like a cigarette?"

"Oh, would I," Irons said, gratefully accepting. Pitt lit it for him and continued.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, stared Irons out. "I don't think you killed those men, Mr Irons," he said. "In fact, I'm positive you didn't."

"Thank God for that!" Irons cried. "Tell those out there!"

"I know who's chasing you, Richard. And I feel there's still some stuff I ought to know before I can apprehend him." Pitt stared him dead in the eye. "Larkhill, Richard. Talk to me."

"Larkhill," Irons said, clutching his cigarette like a lifeline. "Larkhill… oh God."

"Come on, Richard. Talk to me. No-one else can hear us."

Irons stuck the cigarette in his mouth, took enough smoke in to cause a violent fit of coughing, and then said, "You know about the resettlement camps, then?"

Pitt nodded.

"I worked there, back in the early days. Under Lewis Prothero. I was a guard, a low-ranking squaddie, you know. They did… they did these experiments. These awful experiments. It was horrible, you know? Hormone therapy or something. People growing hands in their thighs, or extra nipples, or another bollock. You know, horrible stuff. There was a dyke called Rita Boyd who was on my wing and she… oh, Jesus." He took another drag on his cigarette, letting the flow of the nicotine steady his breath. "When we found her dead, her skin was like plastic or rubber… all hard, foamy, smooth… god. But that wasn't the worse." He looked down at his hands, understanding that he was walking down paths he didn't want to, but paths that would take him to where he wanted to be. He had to face this.

"Go on," Pitt said. "What was worse?"

"The Man," he said, shuddering. "The Man in Room Five."

"The man from the flames," Pitt muttered. "The man with the smile."

"Yes!" Irons hissed. "Oh, thank god! Then you've heard of him?"

"I've met some people," Pitt replied. "Who is he, Richard?"

Irons crushed out his cigarette. Pitt wordlessly handed him another. "There was nothing unusual about his appearance, I remember that. Ugly git, but normal looking, you know. It was his eyes. His big staring eyes. They were horrible, like bug eyes or something. You know, blank and expressionless, but you can tell they're looking at you, straight through you. Like a spider's eyes. You felt like he could look into your soul, he could tell what you were thinking, you know? I used to hate him. Hated him more than anyone there, because he could do something the others couldn't. He could scare me."

"And the roses? Where do they fit into this?"

"They gave him a garden, you know. As an experiment. He seemed to have this fanatical interest in it. He managed to grow roses, the first I'd seen since the war. Whole species we thought were extinct. And then one day…"

Irons looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

"Then one day, I walked into his cell, and he was just sat there in the middle, staring at me like a bug. I wanted to run, I wanted to hit him, I wanted to do anything but to be in that same bloody room as his. But he just sat there, and he offered me a rose. And I threatened to crush it. But then he said something… something weird. He said, "How can you show such little regard for something so rare in this world, Mr Irons?" And then, worst of all, "I'll teach you the value of human life one day, Mr Irons.""

And then it all clicked in Pitt's head, and he realised what the game was. It was like stepping back for the first time and seeing the chess board all laid out before you, realising that you were just a pawn at the centre of it all. But was it too late to stop the checkmate, he wondered.

"So…" Pitt said, with a satisfied and utterly fake smile. "The rose. He said he'd be back, and he was, correct? Now he's going to teach you the value of human life by throwing you into his position, the other side of the bars, correct?"

"No," Irons said. "Maybe. He told me I had twenty-four hours to live. You know that."

"Then what if this is it, Irons? Aren't you understanding what it's like to be here? Aren't you starting to appreciate human life more now that you know what you put all those poor Larkhill bastards through?"

Irons started to sob desperately. "No!" he said. "No, I don't! He's not finished, I know he's not. The game's not over yet."

Pitt grabbed Iron's shaking hands and yelled, "Listen to me, Irons! Can't you see what he's doing? He's driving you mad! He's not just going to kill you, he wants to destroy you! He wants to put you through what he went through – the imprisonment! Knowing that by the end of the day you could be dead! It's an eye for an eye!"

Irons looked up into Pitt's eyes. "You think…" he said.

"Wait it out," Pitt said. "And I promise you I'll find him. You focus on keeping your head round here."

Some horrible recognition flashed in Iron's eyes, and Pitt would never know that he had an old Jefferson Airplane song flying through his head as Pitt uttered those words.

_Feed you head… feed your head._

"Now," Pitt said, releasing Iron's sweaty grip. "Can I trust you here?"

"I'm being transferred in a few hours," Irons replied. "To Blackgate, down in South Ken."

Pitt chuckled. "Well, no-one's going to be touching you there, are they?"

He grabbed his coat and left.

**18.35**

Pitt's car drove down a lonely highway under dead street-lights, across the rubble and ruins of what had once been London. A gentle drizzle clung to his car and the streetlights cast a weird white glow over his face. Aside from the tape player, which was playing a fuzzy version of the Rolling Stone's Angie, the only sound was the splash of the car on the damp tarmac and the squeak of the windscreen wipers.

Some sleep, he thought, rubbing a hand down his face. Some sleep and I can forget about this whole Irons business for now. He hadn't seen home in nearly a day, but there wasn't much to see. He rarely saw his wife much these days. She was a nurse in the hospital, and they were hardly on speaking terms much anyway. The good days were long behind them.

He turned off into a small residential street, passing dim orange street-lights and abandoned semis.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about the chess board, and about his place on it. You're in the game now, Terry. You're as much a part of this as Irons. But the ball was out of his field, into the hands of the Finger. There was nothing else to do but to wait this out.

Still, though, he thought as he turned off down what had once been a bustling main street, there was still that feeling that there was something he was missing here. That perhaps he hadn't seen all the board yet, and that the masked man had one last piece to play. What could he be missing?

He turned off into another street and tried to shake it out of his mind. But he couldn't.

**18.45**

Richard Irons was back in his cell.

He'd been given a sandwich to stave away starvation, and Mickey the Fingerman had informed that he'd be transferred to Blackgate at nine o'clock. Not much time left, he thought, in this cell.

They'd decided that it was in the best interests of the Finger not to execute their agents, at least not for the moment. Instead Irons faced life imprisonment, locked away in Blackgate jail. They figured, Mickey had informed him with a wicked smile, that he could get intimately acquainted with everyone he'd sent there.

They had an awful lot of catching up to do.

But Richard Irons wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking of the man in the mask, of this Pitt character.

And above all, he was thinking of revenge.

**19.00**

Terry Pitt's car pulled up in its driveway and the lights were killed.

The detective left it and stepped up to the house. It sat in darkness, every bit as unfriendly as the Iron's household had been. With a sigh he unlocked the door, slipped off his shoes and stepped inside.

The house was spotlessly clean. No-one lived here long enough to make a mess of it, he reflected sadly, as he turned on a lamp in the living room. He took off his coat, hung it on a hook and collapsed on the sofa, adjusting his tie with one hand.

His head was pounding. He was hungry, tired and nauseous.

Can't rest for the moment, he thought. Best to get some food down my neck.

He wandered into the kitchen, knocking on the light, to discover that an enterprising spider had started building a web over one spotless corner of the work-top. He shook his head. Next to the sink a few sausage mouldered silently on a plate in a pool of tepid water with a small note attached. 'TERRY – DINNER TONIGHT – MANDY.' He looked at the sausages, three sad pink things on a damp saucer, and reluctantly started to fry some oil.

**20.00**

"Mr Irons?" It was Mickey, at the door. "We're going to be moving you in about forty-five minutes. Make sure you're ready."

"Alright," Irons called back.

In the time since Mickey had gone off on an errand, Irons had been very resourceful. Even in the increasingly chaotic remnants of what had once been a sane, rational mind was a streak of adaptability he'd had drilled into him as a serviceman. He could work around things. He could improvise.

Right now he'd been busy improvising a very nasty looking device from what had once been a steel leg of his bed. He'd spent much of the past hour undoing the screws with his bare hands, rolling up on to the bed when Mickey or another goon walked past. They'd given pretty easily, considering, but not without a little blood-loss.

It had given, eventually, and he'd just finished refining it into a long, jagged blade – hammering it into the plaster floor with the weight of the other side of the bed, crushing its flexible steel into a jagged point. It wouldn't be effective for long, he figured, but he could do some damage at close range with one quick stab.

And, surely, that would be enough.

With an almost manic smile he slid the blade up his top, holding it into place with the band of his trousers.

Yes. Yes, this would be enough.

**20.15**

Jean Irons sat alone in her living room.

Ted was in bed. She'd explained what had happened to daddy, and there'd been tears. She hadn't told them about her encounter with him earlier in the afternoon.

And now she was alone, in this empty house, this house that suddenly seemed too big. You're thinking he might come back aren't you? she thought to herself. You're thinking he'll break out.

And then she thought that was a ridiculous idea, that people didn't just break out of the Finger's grip. God alone knew that of all the people in London she'd know that.

But she locked the door anyway, and checked the windows. Just in case.

**20.45**

Richard Irons was led in cuffs out of the Finger HQ, into the cold night air. It seemed somehow refreshing and liberating to him now. He never thought he'd feel like that about the rain.

He stepped up into the back of the Finger Van, Mickey sitting up alongside him. Mickey's gun, in its holster, was clearly visible. A little threat, to make sure Mr Irons didn't step out of line along the way. Another Fingerman sat opposite, with another gun visible. Yet another took the front. They weren't taking any chances.

Unfortunately for them, Richard thought, they've taken one chance too many already. They didn't search him on the way out.

Unlucky for you, he thought, and a wide, mad smile spread across his face.

The back doors were slammed shut and the van started up and out into the night.

To be continued…


	9. 2100 to 0000

**VALUES**

**_Part Eight_**

**21.00**

The Shadow Gallery, nine o'clock.

On the never-ending jukebox, the eternal symphony of chaos and violence and anarchy, UFO are singing 'Lights Out London.' Deep long shadows and pits of darkness consume its cavernous depths. Dust gathers steadily over the precious ancient artefacts.

He reaches calmly for a blade, testing its edge with one gloved finger.

The symphony was building to a crescendo now, all the instruments drawing together for that final coda.

It was time for the conductor to make himself known.

**21.15**

Terry Pitt sat on the sofa, half-reading a tattered old paperback. The Party had been quick to destroy much of the country's literature, leaving nothing but these racial thrillers and romances between good Nordic couples. It wasn't a great story – just tedious propaganda, really, what you'd expect these days – but it was almost serving its purpose.

Putting Pitt's mind off Richard Irons.

Behind him the front door swung open. A light turned on in the hallway. There came the sound of rustling, the removal of shoes, the sound of a coat falling on a hook. The living room door sliding open.

"Oh," Mandy said. "Wasn't expecting to find you home now."

"I'm clear," Pitt responded, not turning around. "Schedules free for now."

"Did you find the sausages?"

"Yes thank you."

Mandy silently crossed into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

Pitt sighed. He almost remembered the days before the war, back when she'd come in and hug him and give him a peck on the cheek. Then they'd watch TV or have sex or do anything at all they could in what little time they had.

These days they just had no energy. None at all.

He went back to his book and tried to stop thinking about Irons.

**21.30**

The Finger-Wagon rumbled loudly through a back street of London, beneath flickering lamp-posts and past crumbling, graffiti-smeared fences. Up front the driver, a young and rather nervous rookie, kept his eyes on the road. Occasionally they'd pass an old abandoned car or some other debris and he'd have to swerve around it. It was just another edge on his already heightened nerveousness.

He didn't trust that man in the back. And rightfully so.

Mikey sat opposite Irons, silent and wishing he was somewhere else. It was late, he had the kids and the wife waiting at home with the dinner on the table. Soon as he'd finished up withthis he'd head home.

But he was edgy about Irons. There was something about his edginess, about the way in which he kept scratching at his chest. The way his eyes kept darting around the wagon. He'd snapped once before. He could do it again.

He kept one finger on his gun, just in case. Just in case.

He was wondering about the bangers he'd have as soon as he got in when it all happened. And it happened fast.

Irons bent over suddenly with a harsh cry, clutching at his chest and screaming "Cramp! Ah, god!"

The Fingerman beside him bent down and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, attempting to yank him back. Before Mikey could even reach for his shooter, Irons had withdrawn a jagged metal rod from his shirt and had shoved it hard into the guard's throat.

As Mikey reached for his gun, and as the guard's blood shoot up in a high-powered jet, splattering against the roof of the wagon, Irons had shoved a hand into the guard's holster and yanked out his gun. The guard clutched at his throat, blood streaming through his fingers, and slumped to the side.

Mikey got one shot off, and it left a neat hole in the roof. Irons retaliated with three, blowing out Mikey's chest and sending the Fingerman slumping dead to the floor.

Up front the rookie swerved the wagon up on to a verge, smashing through a wooden fence. The wagon flipped and hurtled all of its occupants around like socks in a washing machine. Then it slid gradually down into a grassy crevice before bursting into flames.

Irons lay in the back, on his side. The corpse of the late Mikey had landed on his knee, pinning him into a corner. Blood streaked the walls of the stricken carriage and dented steel and shattered glass invited deadly lacerations. He already had one – a deep gash across his forehead, dribbling blood down his face.

Shoving the gun into his trousers, Irons fumbled Mikey's keys out of his pocket and kicked open the door. He climbed up, lifting himself along the edge of the wagon's interior, before dropping down on to the grass and into the cool night air.

As he ran for the road the van exploded, a vast fireball in the night sky. Hunks of flaming steel and rubber rained down on to the road, casting a white glow on the damp tarmac. Irons collapsed to his knees, a wall of heat and tiny shards of shrapnel hitting his back.

I'm free, he thought maniacally. Free at last.

Behind him the Fingermen burned, and Richard Irons fled out into the night.

Free, he thought, and giggled madly. Free at last.

**21.40**

From the safety of a shadowed rooftop, he watches with eager eyes, and gently rubs a finger along the blade.

It's all about patience and timing, he thought with a smile. Of course, the smile was always there – but now he felt the smile beneath it, a cold smile, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

It had been a simple case of swinging down on to the front of the van, forcing the Fingerman to swerve. Conducting, keeping all the players flowing.

And the final crescendo was drawing closer.

**22.00**

Terry Pitt was almost nodding off when he got the brainwave.

Mandy had gone up to bed without saying another word, not even a goodnight. He hadn't regretted it. There were no more regrets.

Instead he'd returned to the tedious pages of his book and had made a cup of coffee. The coffee went down like bitter mud, but it did the trick and he gradually felt the haze of fatigue lifting.

Then he'd began to slip off again, his mind moving in a thousand other directions, thinking about life and bills and taxes and government, when the final piece fell into place, just like that. Something one of the Fingermen told him before his meeting with Irons.

"_Go a little easy on him… his wife's left him. As if everything else that's happened today isn't bad enough, you know? Not for his sake, mind… he's snapped once. He can do it again_."

And then it clicked neatly into place.

His wife. That was the missing link. The final piece in the game, the piece waiting with Irons in check.

"_I'll teach you the value of human life one day, Mr Irons_…"

And it all seemed so horribly simple, so meticulously planned, and so inescapably flawless. This had all been his game-plan from the start – the deaths of the Fingermen, the rose, sending Harry Linderman insane, his arrest at the hands of the Finger.

Then, Pitt thought, it's painfully obvious where I fit into this, isn't it?

I'm his salvation.

He grabbed his coat and his car keys, slipped into his shoes.

It was only when he'd gotten to the car that he realised he had forgotten his gun.

**22.30**

Richard Irons wandered across a forgotten park in an abandoned area of the city. Blood streamed from his head wound and left small splatters on the grass. A few high-rise flats stood in the background, bathed in complete darkness. They looked like eerie grinning totem poles to Irons, watching him move with smiling eyes.

"Sod you!" he screamed out into the darkness and the trees and the bushes. "You think you scare me, you jumped-up bogeyman? You think you're some sort of superman, do you? Hey? Well, laugh it up now! I'll show you the value of human life. And we'll see just how much you value it, you murdering son of a bitch!"

He fired a shot out into the darkness and was greeted with nothing but silent echoes.

Unfazed, he carried on walking into the night.

**23.00**

Terry Pitt's reliable Ford Escort found the remains of the Finger-wagon at eleven o'clock. The car's headlights flashed on the jagged remains of the fence, looking like wooden teeth. Beyond them the wagon smouldered gently in its final resting place, a dirt-strewn grass crevice. The air was thick with the stench of smoke and petrol and something like overdone pork.

A smell that would have been very familiar to Richard Irons.

Pitt opened the Escort door and stumbled carefully down the crevice, clutching an old electric torch. He peered in to the mashed-in front. One burnt-out corpse, now barely recognizable. However, his hat had survived with nothing but a few singed edges, and sat on the seat. Not Irons.

He cautiously clambered to the top of the crevice and peered down through the open back door.

Two more charcoaled corpses, little more than blackened husks now. No chance of recognising them.

With a sigh Pitt backed off from the wreckage and began to walk back to the car. Surely that couldn't have been it, could it? Had the masked man finally arrived to take his revenge, and was this it? It didn't seem to fit.

And when you considered that everything that had happened that day had been as meticulously orchestrated as a scene in a movie, it made even less sense.

He slumped on the bonnet of the Escort and reached for a cigarette.

It was then that he got his answer, handed to him as neatly as everything else had been. Pitt had always thought that there were no such thing as coincidences – there was only careful planning, and patience.

And theatricality.

This was as theatrical as they come. A trail of tiny splatters of blood, leading off west. West, he thought, and fear socked home in his chest when he realised what lay to the West.

Camberwell.

He climbed back into his car and followed them.

23.20

Almost home now, Irons thought, and smirked. All the way he'd been thinking about what he'd do that lying, backstabbing cow. He'd use the gun, that was for sure. Only he wouldn't be merciful. He'd save it till last. And then he'd shoot her where she'd really feel it – the groin, the kneecaps, the breast. Maybe even put a little dummy-cross on every bullet so it shredded her internal organs and really put her through the wringer.

She'd soon regret the day she ever crossed Richard Irons.

Beneath the small heath on which he stood, Camberwell stretched away, rows of neat semi-detached houses and cold, unfriendly orange lights. Twenty-four hours ago, this place would have meant very different things to him – home, warmth, comfort. Love, even.

Now it meant something else entirely. Now it meant victory.

He began to walk down the heath when he heard a cry.

"Wait!" an exasperated voice cried. "Richard, wait!"

Irons calmly reached for his gun, and then began to lower it. Running out of the shadows was the Nose agent, Pitt. He looked a mess – scruffy hair, fatigued, ragged clothes.

"Wait, Richard!" Pitt said, panting. "You have to stop! Don't you see what's happening here? We're all being toyed with! Whatever you're about to do, Richard, you must stop! Or you'll die!"

Irons frowned, and wordlessly reached for his gun.

"No!" Pitt cried. "No, listen to me, please! Don't you see what's happening? The man in the mask, the man from Room Five, promised you he'd show you the value of human life. And he's doing it now! You've had your lesson, don't you see? Same as he had. He put you through his experience, and then he broke you out, and now he's testing you."

The words seemed to fall silent on Iron's ears. The detective may well have been talking in a fog. All he wanted now was blood, and revenge, to cool the heat searing through his shattered mind.

"He's…" Pitt choked. "It's your wife. He set it all up, everything. Turned your wife against you. The lives of your family – those are the values you must learn! God, he's probably watching you now! Turn around! Drop the gun!"

Irons shook his head sadly. "No," he said. "No, too late."

"It's not!" Pitt almost screamed. "Just drop it! That's why I'm here! I'm your salvation, Irons! I'm your last hope! Please, just drop it!"

Irons stared at the gun for what seemed like forever. He held it closely. Thought about its weight, thought about its size. The detective looked on hopefully.

Finally he whispered, "Too late. Damage done."

And he raised the gun, and he shot Terry Pitt three times.

Pitt slumped forward on to his hands and knees, choking and clutching athis chest. He seemed about to say something else when his limbs gave away and he slumped to the floor, lying dead in the grass.

Irons thought the expression on his face was something like relief.

And then he walked on into the night.

**23.45**

Jean Irons checks the back door one more time.

She's been checking it at every five minutes for the past hour, testing the lock, checking that every window in the house is shut. It's the first time she's been in the house alone for many years. She didn't know if she'd sleep that night. She didn't know if she liked this house any more.

With a sigh, and clutching half a glass of wine, she wanders back into the living room.

And then she hears the shattering of glass.

Fear freezes up in her throat, her heart flares up painfully. She sucks in deep, desperate breaths, as if they were to be her last.

"Dear god," she whispers, and is about to break into a run when manly hands shoot out of the shadows and grab her, throwing her to the floor. A foot comes down hard on the side of her head, pain exploding in the right half of her face. Stars spin wildly through her head. Hands yank her, throw her upwards. Arms wrap themselves tightly round her throat.

"Hello again, darling," Richard Irons hisses into her ear, his hot breath tickling her face. "Remember me?"

"Richard, please…" Jean sobs.

Irons spins her around and slaps her hard with the back of his hand, chipping a tooth and sending a stream of blood flowing down her quaking throat. He grabs her before she can fall and yanks her close to his face.

"You're going to really bloody wish you hadn't messed with me," Irons snarls, holding her arms in an almost loving gesture.

He throws his wife to the floor. Her head slams against the edge of the couch as it falls and she cries out, pain pounding out from the wound. Slowly Richard begins to remove his belt. Brown leather, she thinks madly. Christmas present, two years ago.

"Going to be screaming my bloody name for forgiveness," Irons says, wrapping the belt round his hand like snake. "But you ain't going to get any. This is for keeps, you two-faced little bitch."

She begins to sob helplessly, hating herself for it, wishing she could at least stand up to him and resist. Tears stream painfully down her swollen face and mingle with the blood.

"Daddy?"

Ted, she thinks suddenly. Oh no, Ted, no, dear god…

"Daddy, stop!" Ted cries, running down the stairs.

The boy leaps at Richard, grabbing at the belt with his tiny hands. A look of mad rage flashes across Richard's face and he flings the boy hard across the room, where he hits his back against a sofa and passes out.

"NO!" Jean screams, leaping to her feet. "You leave my son alone, you bastard…"

He swings the belt down like a whip and it catches her hard across her chest, leaving a painful fire-streak. She falls backwards, where he looms over her like a demon.

"Big mistake," he says, shaking his head. "Real big mistake."

He brings the belt down once again, an agonising strip across her back. She cries out again and this time breaks into helpless tears. Going to die, she thinks. Going to die here. Ted, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault, all of it…

"See?" Richard yells, in some wild delirium. "This is what I think of your value of life! This! I think the only life with any bloody value is my own! Come on out, then! Show yourself!"

No sound comes back but Jean's helpless sobs.

"Well, watch this, then…" Irons says, and swings the belt back for one more swing.

It never quite gets all the way. It freezes halfway though its swing, some unseen hands in the kitchen clutching the other end.

For one horrible second Jean sees the manic joy in Richard's eyes collapse into the hopeless fear she'd seen in him all day, but this time it's worse than ever. Now he looks as though he's looked into the mouth of hell itself.

And suddenly hands rush out from behind him and he vanishes into the shadow of the kitchen.

He doesn't scream.

**00.00**

Jean Irons slowly stands up, on legs like jelly, and walks in a haze into the kitchen.

Richard hadn't had the chance to scream. A single blade sticks neatly out of his chest, pointing an accusing finger at her. A puddle of blood spreads steadily beneath him. Straight in the heart. Behind him the window lies open, the blinds billowing softly in the silent night air.

She knows what she has to do.

She reaches for the knife, and walks back into the living room, and calls the Nose.


	10. Midnight 2

**VALUES**

**Midnight**

He slips out into the night, the wind tugging at his cape. Behind him the Iron's household is bathed in a lonely night, and more importantly, in silence. He understands that, in his pursuit for vengeance, he has forever destroyed a family, but sometimes, he supposes, it's for the best. Sometimes if something's so corrupt it faces self-destruction anyway, it's the only decent thing to do. Especially if the corruption runs so deep that it becomes possible to manipulate their very emotions to your own bidding, to truly have them destroy themselves with nothing but careful planning.

Jean Irons will be alright. She'll find it hard at first, her new-found freedom. They'll buy the self-defence story she'll tell them. Iron's death will be a closed book, and so will that time of her life. But she'll learn. She'll learn to love the world beyond the bars.

Although, he thinks as he lands on a nearby rooftop over the streets of Camberwell, although it is unfair that the children should suffer. Will the boy ever forgive him for this?

I don't know, V thinks. I just don't know.

Sometimes the value of a human life is at a different price to different people. Irons could never understand that, could never comprehend that human life had a value at all, and even when faced with the end of his own, could not accept it.

And until the day he did, he'd always be doomed.

V smiles his permanent smile, and, his cape billowing out behind him, vanishes into the winter night.

**_The End_**


End file.
